All during the dark days of January, when the temperatures hover near absolute zero and the sun never gets above the tops of the trees, when even the dog won’t linger outside longer than necessary, when the senses are dulled and long for the faintest whiff of spring scents, that is the time when I look forward with enormous yearning to… Sweeps Month! February, that TV oasis between the bleak post-holiday doldrums and the false hopes of March, the cruelty of April. The month when you are promised new episodes, intriguing plotlines, interesting character developments. What have we gotten so far? Repeats, re-runs, reoccurrences, regurgitations, re, re, re. Instead of stories that are ripped from the headlines, we get tales torn from the bottom of the birdcage.

It’s a good thing I only have three more sessions of physical therapy next week. The last few times I’ve found myself nodding off while I’m having the electro-muscle-stimulation and heated-shoulder-wrap combo, and even while I’m on the rack (aka, cervical traction). I fear public drooling and snoring above many other potential humiliations, even when I’m in the faux privacy of a curtain-partitioned cubicle. And after all that, my neck started to hurt this evening for the first time in over a month (probably stress – I have to settle a turf battle at work that involves much political posturing, pissing and moaning – and, in the best tradition of procrastinators everywhere, left it until Monday to resolve).